


Roylk the Walk

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Community: pass_shoot_porn, M/M, Passive-aggression, Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Patrick Roy and Martin Brodeur snark passive-aggressively at each other, and then furniture gets ruined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roylk the Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pass_shoot_porn with the prompt of "Perfectionist". This tends more to the obsessive edge of the spectrum. I do not apologize for the horrible pun.

||

Patrick has always had his superstitions. He knows there’s a large portion of the population that would call them obsessions instead, but he cares about that like the cares about the red line. It only applies to him if someone catches him flaunting it. He believes in those superstitions like he believes in himself, and they’re all tangled up together so much that he wouldn’t be much without them. There are the ones that apply only to him, communing with the pipes and thanking them for their help when they protect his net. The ones that must be done perfectly, flawlessly, the ritual of skating backward, twisting at the last second and kicking up snow so that his goal will shrink the appropriate amount before each game. There are the ones that almost become jokes, like how he always wears Footer’s underwear since he won his first game in Avalanche gear after forcing the younger man to buy them for him. He has the superstitions, and he also has his name on more hardware than you can shake a stick at so anyone who wants to come after him for it can kiss all the rings he has to clog up almost every orifice. Those superstitions add up to perfection. This he is sure of.

He also has that one the announcers love to call “Don’t come in to Patrick Roy’s house”, though that one is less a superstition than a . . . a law. It doesn’t get flouted often, because his fists often move without his permission when it is.

There are a few things he expects when he’s at home. He knows that Stèphane never remembers his keys, so when he hears the doorbell he just opens it, his admonition to his brother dying on his tongue. “What the fuck, Martin.”

Brodeur pushes through the door, forcing his way into the house and stripping Patrick of his secretly held hope that maybe a threshold would hold him back the way it supposedly held back other creatures of the pit.

“Shut up,” he snaps, spinning and trying to fix him with a stare. Patrick snorts, folds his arms and waits him out. Brodeur wilts soon enough, because in life as in hockey there is simply no standing up to St. Patrick’s stare. “Do you ever shut up?”

One eyebrow creeps up slowly until he starts to squirm under the scrutiny. He can almost see Brodeur’s shoulders lose some of their haughty set and he slumps a little.

“There.” He sounds soothing, mature, because he knows how completely that will piss Brodeur off. “Now that you are here, it is nice to see you and get out.”

His eyes get narrow and Patrick sighs, rolling his eyes a touch. “ _Please_.”

“Please. Nice touch. I appreciate the courtesy.” Brodeur pushes farther into the house and he’s darting his gaze around like he realizes how much checking out the place is gonna piss Patrick off, as though he’s trying to grasp everything about how Patrick lives, how he is when he’s in his home. The home he has outside of the ice, at any rate. There’s a reason it’s spare. “I’m not leaving, though.”

Patrick makes a mental note to never, ever open his door again. Never. His family can damn well learn to remember their keys. “This is my house.” His voice is starting to get that dangerous lilt, the one it does when trades get ~~requested~~ demanded. “Get out of it.”

“It’s very . . . simplistic.” He’s taking in the plain lines of everything, the smooth and clean spaces that he can keep up with now that the kids are old enough to pick up their own things. “It suits you.”

He can feel a headache starting already. “It’s not keeping with the modern world but I expect you appreciate that.” 

The smile Brodeur gives him is mostly teeth, the one that looks civil until it tilts enough to show canine. It’s the same one he’s been seeing since Nagano, friendly and congratulatory, and he sorta wants to hit it. 

“The classics will never go out of style,” he agrees, falling heavily to the couch and looking up at Patrick. “Unlike the new trends.”

He doesn’t like seeing Brodeur on his couch. He doesn’t belong there and it’s weirdly infuriating. “Do you have something you want to say?”

“No. Just nice house.” He settles in and that desire to punch is getting stronger, except Patrick was raised to be a good host. Mostly. When he can be bothered to remember, at any rate. “Are you going to offer me anything?”

He gives up with a sigh. Being in home territory has its disadvantages when one’s guest has already decided rules don’t apply to them. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee?” Like he knows how Patrick has everything loose, how he likes making it from scratch. Except when he has to spend that much time doing it for someone he doesn’t want to spend time with. 

His lips tilt up.

Patrick curses ever speaking to him at the Olympics. It’s set a dangerous precedent. “Yes. Fine. Coffee.”

Working in the kitchen is good for one thing. It helps his mind settle, the mechanics of grinding the beans and setting the French press to working is as simple as making a glove save, and once it’s dripping his anger management lessons start to kick in. His mind is carefully blank as he measures the cream, pours two equal cups and gathers a few packets of sugar next to his. 

He gives Martin the whole sugar pot. It’s not as though he thinks he’s being particularly clever, but he can’t help smirking anyway.

There’s a part of him that’s leery of leaving Brodeur alone in his living room for this long, but he’s almost positive that, as much as he doesn’t particularly like him, he wouldn’t actually break anything or slip something into his pocket.

When he comes out he’s relieved to see that there is still the same stack of magazines on his coffee table, only slightly ruffled, the same number of coasters set out on various end tables. 

“Why are you _here_ , Martin?” he asks, picking up the magazines and shifting them back, smoothing the edges so they rest properly where they belong. 

“Well, I was in the area.” It sounds vague enough to be unbelievable, even if they _were_ the sorts to drop in on each other. “I heard your old club signed your protégé.”

“Mont . . .” It takes him seconds of thought, just staring at Brodeur before it all clicks into place like a falling level of Tetris, bright colors and simple blocks. “You mean Jean-Sebastien? In _Colorado_.”

“Who else?” he agrees, sitting carefully into Patrick’s sofa. He’s directly between the door and Patrick, impossible to avoid in the arrangement of the house. The eye falls to him naturally, like a TV. “Isn’t he one of your up and coming stars?”

It’s actually amusing, the way Brodeur can no more let it go than Patrick can resist pushing at it.

“Are you still offended by a simple slip?” he asks, setting the coffee down equidistant between them and sitting in his armchair. “Martin, you know it’s just because you’re already at the elite level. Obviously anyone who knows hockey and has heard me speak about it knows you hardly need mention; you’re already there.”

Brodeur believes him like he believes in his helpfulness, and they watch each other like a couple old boxers for several minutes. 

Patrick throws the first blow. “By the time you finally retire you will still be one of the top four or five goalies in the league.” 

Patrick is a perfectionist. He retired as a perfectionist, walking out of the game rather than seeing himself slip below one or two in the rankings. He pushes back into the chair, taking a slow drink and just watching for a moment before helpfully pushing the sugar pot closer. Brodeur rises to it with a little twist of his lips, a quirk in his shoulder and the cup with its full pot of sugar being pushed closer to him. 

“Are you completely incapable of being sincere?”

“Are you incapable of accepting a compliment?”

“Bullshit, Patrick.” His temper is even closer to the surface than it used to be, and Patrick will probably send Avery a fruit basket at the end of it. “You’ve never complimented me without a knife in the other hand.”

“Maybe a skate blade,” he corrects, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, I forgot the cream. Right back.”

He’s not retreating. He does not retreat, especially from Brodeur, but he does take a few breaths in the kitchen, in and out and huffed through gritted teeth, before he grabs the cream. When he makes it out it creaks dangerously in his hand. 

Apparently the line where he can trust Brodeur ends on ‘he will not move my furniture while I’m gone’.

“What are you doing?” His voice is higher than he wants it to be but Martin is busy pushing his sofa towards his newly relocated reading lamp. “Are you insane? Is this some sort of mental defect I didn’t know about?”

Brodeur, for all the cracks that cycle through the NHL like clockwork, is a strong man. He all but lifts his armchair to shift it around and Patrick is seeing so much red it’s like he’s back playing in Jersey. 

“You have horrible feng shui,” he remarks as he relocates, and there is no way that he even knows what that means, let alone how it’s supposed to work. Patrick does. His ex-wife bought books.

“Stop it. Stop. You’re . . . nothing’s right, it’s not where it _belongs_ . . .”

Okay, it’s a little compulsive. But his house used to be perfect, and now it’s got Brodeur in it.

“Dammit, stop it!” 

His smile is saccharine sweet, tossed over his shoulder as he shifts some of Patrick’s magazines from the end table to the coffee table. “I’m just helping. It’ll flow better this way, trust me.”

The creamer explodes against the far wall, showering white and thick and disappearing into the cream paint, tiny shards of glass embedding in the spackle. It’s not really aimed at anything in particular — a shot on the fly — but Brodeur ducks anyway, shifting back and Patrick has neither the height nor weight advantage but he pushes in despite that, shoving at him and throwing him backward.

“If you weren’t so obsessed with breaking my records you would have gotten out when you were still _good_.”

Brodeur snorts; it’s a low blow that’s not even particularly true and he shoves away. “You don’t have it, Patrick. You were good when you were winning and once you had to work for it you just handed in the towel, so great, going home with my ball now.”

Patrick is a fighter in that way where sometimes red becomes a predominant color and he just has to throw a punch because his arm is already moving to do it. He doesn’t go half way. His arm starts moving in an arch before he’s fully aware, and then it’s slamming into Brodeur’s chin because he doesn’t care enough to try and stop it mid flight. It’s not like he planned it out, or even that he’s consciously aware that he wants to do it, except that it clears that smirk off Brodeur’s face in a hurry and he is pretty happy about that.

The blow hitting him in the gut isn’t surprising, but the force of it is. He’s got no padding to shield himself and Brodeur is punching for real, all his weight behind it, and all he can do is reach and grab, holding his shoulder to keep from toppling before hitting him again, high up on his cheek and making Brodeur stumble backwards even as Patrick just. Hangs on.

He can barely breathe through the burning in his gut and lungs, Martin’s teeth are lined in a lurid orange that trickles from the cut of his teeth into his lip. “Asshole,” he snarls, spitting out in flecks and then nailing Patrick with a left that comes out of nowhere and makes his head spin and twist as his ears ring.

There are no refs to split them up, no black and white to get between them and shove them apart so they just fist in each other’s shirts and go for it, blows that are half hearted and badly angled without even the excuse of skates and ice to make up for it. It’s strangely relaxing — it’s no longer passive aggressive bitching, it’s direct conflict. This, they can do.

Patrick’s not entirely sure when they stumble to the couch, if it’s before or after Brodeur’s mouth is crashing into his, teeth clacking with the force of it. He can’t claim to know the linear events of how any of it happens. It’s like how he’s heard time is supposed to actually move, all at once with no transitions. His hands are spasming in Brodeur’s shirt, and instead of shoving he’s pulling him in, against his body at the same moment he topples over onto the recently rearranged sofa. It drags across the floor in an overbalanced tip while Brodeur’s fingers are in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as he struggles to hang on to the short, thin strands. Lips part under his and he’s pushing in, tasting Martin’s tongue against his and coaxing him to return the gesture, legs parting to allow the bigger man to settle between his thighs, half on and half off the sofa. 

He’s really not sure which one of them is groaning; it’s cycling in the air between them as Brodeur nips at his lower lip, along the line of his jaw and to his throat where he bites down hard, hard enough that Patrick snarls, fingers pressing bruises into his biceps as his muscles twitch with the conflict of pulling him in or pushing him away.

“Why did you have to walk away?” he demands, pushing Patrick’s head back so he can nip at his shoulder, teeth sharp through the cotton. “Did St. Patrick lose the faith?”

“I didn’t need all that time to do it in.” His eyes slip closed, hips working up against the heavy heat he can feel pressing against his hip. “Superior style.”

“Inferior, blow out your knees . . .”

“Shut up about my knees.”

Brodeur hisses, arching and pushing, driving himself into the cradle of Patrick’s hips. His stubble burns across Patrick’s lips as he drags him into a kiss, more teeth than anything, and thrusting down. 

“Your knees,” Brodeur hisses into the air between them, hot with the humidity of their breath, and Patrick shoves, shifting and rolling until he’s better positioned, rolling his hips up and forcing a rhythm.

“No, I don’t think so.” His fingers work into the space between them, skimming over Brodeur’s belly — the cut of hipbone and the softness there, too, the way it feels against his own skin as he forces their shirts out of the way. Brodeur’s t-shirt doesn’t pose a challenge but Patrick has to force his own button-up out of his jeans, tugging at the belt and button, shoving them lower on his hips as Brodeur drags down, the rough denim chaffing and burning over sensitive skin.

Hands settle against Brodeur’s back as he arches up into him and he whines, snarls as he has to let go of Patrick’s hair to work his own jeans open since Patrick won’t do it for him, pushing himself up so he can do away with his underwear. It catches somewhere around his knees and so Patrick just reaches in, palms his ass to pull him against himself tighter, stuttering against him as their cocks finally align and slide hot and dry against each other, catching on their bellies and gradually slicking with the sweat there. It’s a dry burn, loosening with each movement until they’re sliding together with purpose, pushing and shoving and rutting against each other.

Everything narrows down to their teeth, gliding and nipping, and the hot, wet slide of their cocks between them, Patrick working a leg up to hook around Brodeur’s knees as best he can given the dig of his jeans around his thighs. They’re panting, sharing their air between each other until Patrick’s pretty sure that he’s not getting enough oxygen in his brain, that’s the only explanation for the way his fingers are gripping Brodeur’s ass like a lifeline as his entire body draws up, cock leaking precome. 

It’s a competition, just like everything else, Martin doing these obscene things to Patrick’s neck and shoulder while Patrick strokes down his back, reaching in and pressing, massaging his fingers against that place behind his balls that has him swearing and thrusting harder, tongue hot against his pulse and teasing the crook of his neck.

Brodeur breaks first but it’s not by any margin that would allow Patrick any sort of advantage, a hundredth of a point difference and not even recorded in the record books as anything but a tie. Brodeur draws himself tight and still for a moment and by the time Patrick feels him spill wet against his belly he’s already coming as well, smearing across the both of them in a horrible, sticky mess that only grows worse as they continue to rut against each other, riding out the last shocks of it against each other’s skin.

If Patrick feels Brodeur press a kiss to his collarbone before pushing himself up on his hands neither one of them mention it, Brodeur rolling away and sitting back, allowing Patrick to draw his legs together, cock wet and already beginning to stick. He keeps his eyes closed until he feels like he’s in control of them, sliding them open to see Brodeur straightening himself out, scrubbing at himself with a wet paper towel. His lazy wave results in the paper being tossed onto him after Brodeur is done; he makes a face and finds a clean portion to wipe himself up.

“You’re still an asshole,” he manages when he has his voice back and Brodeur smiles down at him, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt.

“An asshole who has your records.”

Patrick doesn’t have anything he needs to say to that. He just smiles, crooked and with a lot of teeth. “I see your records and raise you the playoffs.”

The magazine flutters apart long before it hits him. He’s too busy returning his living room to its original, pristine condition to bother to show Martin out.


End file.
